The Opposite of Love
by Amidephrine
Summary: The line between love and hate isn't a line at all, it's a circle. There is love and there is hate, they stand side by side, simultaneously linked and differentiated by passion. It's in passion that the line blurs and it gets harder and harder to tell the two apart. And opposite to them – both of them – is their true contrast: indifference. Scotland/England


He was as infuriating as he ever was, leaning so far back in his chair it was a miracle it hadn't slipped out from underneath him and discarded him as a mass of limbs on the floor. His boots, ragged, worn and muddy, were kicked up and crossed over the papers that had once been clean atop his desk. His uniform, only occasionally pressed and clean, was just as dishevelled as his appearance. His under shirt peeked through his coat, the white fabric stained with flecks of rusty brown – blood, no doubt. Everything about him was unkempt and disastrous, from the mess of his flame-coloured hair to the state of the filthy soles of his boots.

And of course, the one consistency that could be found – regardless if the man was pressed clean or rolled through the mud – was the grin. His lips were turned upwards in contrast to the dip of his brow, the expression smug and haughty and everything Arthur hated seeing on that man. The look was something one would expect to see on the bastard love child of Pride and Envy, _not_ on the brazen mug of his elder brother.

Alistair Kirkland.

Scotland himself.

Arthur couldn't help the grimace on his face as he shut his office door at his back with a click, never once taking his eyes off the man sitting in _his_ chair at _his_ desk.

The room reeked of whiskey and was dimmed by a haze of smoke, produced from the cigarette perched lazily between smirking lips. Arthur had the mind to wonder how many his brother had smoked in his time here to pollute the entire room.

"Alistair," Arthur began with a curt nod of his head.

"Hello, _brither._"

The heavy, unapologetic brogue was a sure sign that this would not be a 'nice' meeting.

But first, there were matters to attend to:

"If it's not too much to ask, Alistair, would you kindly remove your boots from my desk?"

The man responded by bringing his fingers to his lips, taking a long drag of his cigarette, then removing it entirely to blow unhindered smoke in the younger man's direction. Arthur unconsciously held his breath and advanced, uncaring, through the smoke.

"Nae need tae be sic' a prude, wee brither."

Without dignifying that with a response, Arthur slammed his books down on his desk and leaned over the wood towards his brother.

"What do you want?"

"Tae see ye, ay coorse." The smile that slithered into place over the taller man's lips was sickly sweet. Arthur furrowed his prominent brows and did not return the look, however false it was.

"Then might I ask you drop that barbarian speak and address me like a proper man?"

Arthur's jab succeeded in wiping that lie of a smile off the other's face. The look the Englishman received was hostile and bitter – but only for the moment it took for the Scot to reign in his annoyance and find his smug grin again.

"Ah was adressin' ye loch a "proper" cheil," he said smoothly. When he spoke again, his words were far more intelligible, and the brogue in his voice had softened – making the man's accent far more pleasant than Arthur believed was proper. "My mistake, laddie, won't happen again."

"Now, care to tell me why you're here without lying through your teeth?"

"What? I'm not allowed to visit my wee brother anymore? Too important for blood now, laddie?"

Arthur stood straight and studied the Scot through narrowed eyes. He filtered through the information cluttering his brain, focusing only on memories that pertained to the intruding country.

"Ah," he said in a moment of revelation, "you're here to gloat."

Alistair looked disappointed for a moment, likely a little put-off that he'd already been found out. But he was quick to recover and kept that easy smile fixed on the blonde.

"Don't you wish to congratulate me, Arthur?"

"Congratulate you?" echoed the Brit, sounding indignant. He stared down at his elder brother, taking in the lazy grin and aloof posture, then turned away to the glass cabinets against the west wall of his office. He said nothing to the other in the room as he prepared himself a drink. He slammed it back quickly, then poured himself a second glass of scotch that he intended to savour a little more.

He was entirely unprepared for when a large hand came down on his, fingers settling into the gaps between his own to grasp the bottle. He became aware of his brother's weight pressing into his back, of his other arm snaking around to hold his waist and pull him close. Arthur froze as the bottle was pulled away from him, and both his hands flew to the arm that held to his waist, as if to pull it away.

The voice at his ear and the weight of the man's chin on his shoulder stopped him cold though.

"Must ye turn to drink to face me, dear brother?"

Arthur huffed and refused to be bullied.

"I could ask the same of you, _Alistair._"

The Brit deliberately avoided any term that may label them as family. He knew it would grind against the Scot's nerves.

It most certainly was.

"Ah, but my buzz is one of celebration," the Scot turned his head and Arthur could feel lips brushing against his ear, the breath behind that brogue hot and damp and the blonde subtly tried to lean away from it. "I'll be free of you yet, dear brother."

"I-I doubt that this time will be any more successful than any of your last att-" he was stopped mid-word when Alistair suddenly tightened his grip, digging his blunt nails into the muscle at his little brother's stomach, bruising through the cloth uniform. His back pressed firmly into the Scot's chest, his boots scraping against the floor and suddenly the blonde realized the grip was so firm he was being _lifted_ by it. He felt his heart flutter in alarm, because although Arthur could not see them, he was sure his brother's eyes were ablaze.

The Scot threw back his head and laughed, long and loud and mocking as he swiftly turned away from his brother, taking the bottle of scotch with him and leaving Arthur struggling to gather his composure.

Scotland leaned casually against the Brit's desk, taking a long swig from the bottle and relishing the burn. He watched his brother's back carefully, knowing the younger Kirkland was rallying his courage and doing his best to keep a level head. As expected, when England turned his face was back to that irritated mask. The Scot smiled and drew a hand through his wild red hair. He had an ulterior motive for returning to the desk – retrieving the cigarette that he left carelessly burning on the wood. After releasing a long sigh of smoke back into the air, he spoke again.

"Just when I think you'll show me your true colours, Arthur, you start giving me that look again."

"What look?"

The Scot gestured with the bottle to Arthur before taking another drink. He set it down and linked his fingers in front of him.

"You heard about the Scottish National Party?"

Arthur's irritation at an improperly answered question was shoved aside. He hated playing his brother's game, he hated being forced to take the conversation at _his_ pace. But handling the Scot was an art the Englishman had never been able to master. He had no other choice.

"I did."

"And?"

Alistair watched his little brother like a hawk, reading every little tick and tell as he had for hundreds of years and Arthur could not stop him. The blonde sighed, returning to the glass of alcohol he'd been distracted from. After taking a sip, ever under that watchful stare, he had figured out how to proceed.

"What would you like me to say, Alistair?"

"Finish your earlier remark, lad."

That was a challenge – Arthur could hear it in his brother's tone. He took in a breath, finished half the glass and took it.

"It's cute," he said, a little smirk of his own playing at his lips as he swished the alcohol around in his glass. He saw the red head stiffen at the demeaning remark, but his expression stayed cool. "In a way, I pity you."

"Aye?"

"It's always like this, you puff out your chest and crow about independence, but when it comes down to it you're all too content to accept our money to keep your brutish country sated." Arthur waved his hand dismissively, aware of how dangerous his words were but quite beyond caring. "You've gotten lazy and greedy, it's no wonder your referendum is three years away. You can dangle it over my head until you settle on a price."

The silence that followed Arthur's words was smothering, and it was in that silence that the Brit recounted all his words and finally remembered this man – political mannerisms aside – was _Scottish._

Scots, if anything, could be counted on for a hot temper and a terrible case of unpredictability.

But Alistair hadn't reacted save from a dark look, and still perched on the edge of his desk and watched – while every muscle in Arthur's body screamed at him to prepare for a Scottish explosion.

"Aye," he drawled slowly, finishing his cigarette. He crushed it into the polished wood of the desk, and the impropriety made Arthur forget his caution and he approached.

"Hey, that is exp-"

Like lightning, Alistair had lashed out, grabbing the Brit roughly by the shoulders and spinning him 'round. He was shoved brutally against the desk, crying out until a hand clamped over his mouth. Arthur felt a bruising grip on his right wrist pull his arm back behind him, putting a painful pressure on his shoulder. Alistair's weight was there in full, forcing him down, crushing him into the wood.

"And you, dear England?" hissed the Scot. His hand had moved from the Brit's mouth to the back of his head and he pushed the man's skull into the wood – pinning him in every sense of the word. "Look at you now, _Great_ Britain."

Arthur physically could not, but he could imagine the sight. His brother even had the good graces to explain it for him.

"Your own brother has you bent over a desk like a cheap whore and you can't do much more than complain about it, can you?"

He felt the Scot lean back, but that large hand kept his head down.

"You used to be an _Empire_. Remember that, brother? Remember how I fought for you tooth and nail to keep that status, despite that it was a status that should have been mine? Remember how you just let it slip through your fingers, one colony after another, and could do _nothing_ about it?"

"The times have changed, Alistair," Arthur hissed into the wood.

"Aye, that they have, lad, but you've never done much more than make excuses for your failures, now, haven't ye? That hasn't changed."

Arthur felt himself flush, humiliated in more ways than he cared to count. He felt his brother pushing up on his pinned arm and it hurt. He grit his teeth and snarled curses into the wood.

The hand on the back of his head brushed forward, through his hair, and cupped his forehead like a mother might when checking her child for a fever. Alistair pulled his head back and leaned forward, resting his chin on the younger Kirkland's shoulder.

"Why do we do this, wee one?"

The term of endearment from ancient times did nothing to soften the severity of the situation. It only made Arthur flush more.

"Because you're an unstable git and can never decide what side you're on."

"Aye," purred Alistair in agreement, threading his fingers up through the blonde mess of hair while resting his forehead on the younger man's shoulder. "But remember, lad, that the opposite of love is not hate: it's indifference."

Arthur scoffed, and the noise earned pressure on his arm as punishment.

"Is that your backwards way of trying to tell me you _care?_"

"I've always cared, Arthur, you know that. We bicker – as is the curse of all brothers – but brothers we are none the less."

"_This_ is what you call bickering?!"

"Ah, still as dense as ever, wee one."

Arthur gasped in relief as his arm was released and he immediately went to brace himself against the desk, which was well because Alistair put all his weight on his brother, forcing him back down.

"I hate you," hissed Arthur.

"I'll take it," resigned the elder. He snaked his arms around the blonde's midsection and held him close, ignoring muffled protests and half-hearted squirming. The squirming stopped dead when he felt chapped lips pressing into his neck and lift, only to return, peppering kisses in a gentle manner that completely contradicted the Scot's behaviour since the start.

"Are you bloody mad?"

"Believe it or not, I'm not too fond of seeing you give up so willingly," mused the elder, his lips ghosting over the slender, pale neck. Arthur was trying to lean away, unwittingly giving Alistair more canvas to nip at. "I prefer you with a bit o' fight, wee one."

A sharp bite renewed Arthur's squirming, and this time his brother eased, leaning back and allowing the younger to wiggle around. He succeeded in turning on his side, the edge of the desk pressing harshly into his hip, but at least now he could look up to his brother's face.

Alistair looked down on the blonde with hooded eyes, deep in thought. That smile was gone, replaced by a contemplative frown. He had the smaller man pinned, leaning down with his arms on either of England's sides to keep him caged.

"W-what's that look for?"

"I can't say I love ye, lad."

The pinned man stuttered.

"W-what are you on about now?"

Instead of answering, Alistair moved his hand to the younger man's face, his palm covering one jade orb while his fingers covered the other, spread enough to let a glimpse of green through.

"Wh-"

His question was shoved back down his throat when Alistair took his lips in a bruising kiss. It wasn't gentle or loving or kind or anything one would expect to be exchanged between a proper couple. But it was Alistair: it was hard and unforgiving and not just a little provocative. Arthur felt himself guided back, pushed down to lay on the desk. His senses had abandoned him at the ambush, but returned to him when he felt a warm hand press into his belly, pushing up the fabric of his uniform with precise slowness.

Arthur protested with a grunt and planted his hands on the elder's chest, pushing with not quite enough force, but Alistair relented anyways.

But if he had words to say, the Englishman had completely forgotten them under the light of that thoughtful stare – visible through the gaps in the man's fingers. Alistair didn't look mocking, or angry. There was no mischievous glint in those eyes, just as there was no vengeance.

"You're absolutely right, boy," breathed the red-head, "I can never decide what side I want to be on." As he spoke to the stunned man beneath him, Alistair kept pushing his hand up, over warm pectorals and a jutting collarbone until strong fingers laced around that pale neck. He pressed his thumb lightly into Arthur's jugular, but still the Brit could see no aggression in the other's stare. The blonde let his hands fall back to the desk. "I hate ye one day, and the next I don't. I want to see you fall, but I don't want to see ye hurt. I'm a man of contradictions because of you."

Arthur fumbled for a foothold in this quiet chaos, unable to read the other man, unable to know for sure the correct way to respond. He rallied his courage for the second time that night and spoke anyway, despite not knowing what reaction his words would garner.

"You're drunk," he reminded the Scot. Then he remembered the flush of his face and couldn't deny that his two quick shots had an effect on him. It may have been the reason he hadn't screamed bloody murder when the other man had jumped him in the first place.

"Your point, boy?"

Arthur opened his mouth to expand, but found he could summon no explanation. He fumbled awkwardly for words, able only to accumulate a series of strangled noises in thought. Suddenly, his line of sight was cut off completely as the Scot shut his fingers and he found himself staring into darkness. The position of the hand at his neck shifted, pressing instead into his collarbone as the Scot descended once more.

This kiss was far more aggressive, accented with bites at his lips until they parted in a gasp. Alistair pressed ahead, exploring the younger man's mouth with his own, looking pensively at the knuckles of his hand and at the jade eyes he covered.

He liked the boy with a bit of fight, but there was some sort of satisfaction in smothering that fire. He didn't know why the boy hadn't started kicking up a fuss yet, why he appeared to have relinquished himself completely. He was reciprocating the kiss, Alistair noticed, but he wasn't pushing him away, either.

When the Scot drew back to breathe, Arthur found the words he'd lost earlier.

"So what is this, then?" he asked, sounding all too sober, still blinded by the heavy hand over his eyes. "Is today the day you don't hate me?"

"Today, lad? I hate ye. How could I not?" Alistair gave a dry little laugh. "You _pity_ me, boy? Nae, nae. Today is a day where I want to ruin you."

"This is awfully gentle for hatred, Alistair."

"Is that a complaint?"

"An observation." There was quiet, and Alistair felt his drive falter. "Tell me, why don't you ruin me?"

The Scot narrowed his eyes to downplay his surprise. Arthur lifted his hands, placing them both over the Scot's which shielded his eyes. He held them there for a minute, before slowly pulling his brother's hand away and giving him his sight again.

Those green eyes found the Scot, and he smiled a confident little smile.

Alistair took a long breath in, held it, then blew it back into the younger man's face, who tried in vain not to cough at the smoke and booze on his breath.

"I can't say I love ye," he repeated.

The Scottish brother stood up with a huff, pushing away from the blonde and heading for the door with a bit of a sway to his step.

Arthur sat up, fixing his uniform with typical attention to detail. Once he was satisfied his shirts were in order he stood, turning his gaze to the taller man, who stood by the door with his hand on the handle.

The two exchanged a look, matching green eyes coordinating an unspoken exchange. Arthur laughed, the sound was bitter and dry but it was a laugh all the same.

"All right, then," said the Englishman. "Try not to start any fights on your way home."

The Scot scoffed, rolled his eyes and left, slamming the door in his wake.

As soon as the aggressive country had gone, Arthur let out a long breath, and with it his nerves came undone and he began to shake. Unsteadily he turned to the bottle, miraculously still untouched on his desk. He didn't bother with such gentlemanly practices as using a glass this time.

_I can't say I love ye, _he said. And with those words – those backwards words that were so typical of Scotland – Arthur had grasped at least one small thread of understanding.

_I can't say it,_

_But I love ye._

* * *

**_WHAT. _WHAT AM I DOING GUYS?**

**Making a whole lot of not-sense, I'll tell you that.**

**Shh, shh. I love Scotland. It doesn't have to make sense. Plus I'm Scottish and British and I'unno those countries are just great. Also this coupling is one of my favourites. I don't get it completely, but I ship it. I SHIP IT SO HARD.**

**If you're confused, that's okay! I'm pretty confused too! I tend the write things and then go, "huh. IS THIS DEEP? I CAN'T TELL."**

**Sooo yes. I would love to hear your thoughts/interpretations/demands of wtf am I doing. I try and to respond to every one I get, because really I'm a chatterbox. (I never shut up.)**

**Thank you so, so much for reading this. I look forward to hearing from you!**

**Ta~**

**Ami**


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